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Dubliners
by James Joyce

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DUBLINERS
THE SISTERS
THERE was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke.
Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and
studied the lighted square of window: and night after night I had
found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead,
I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind
for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He
had often said to me: "I am not long for this world," and I had
thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I
gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It
had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in
the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now it
sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It
filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look
upon its deadly work.
Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came
downstairs to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he
said, as if returning to some former remark of his:
"No, I wouldn't say he was exactly... but there was something
queer... there was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you my
opinion...."

He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his
mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be
rather interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired
of him and his endless stories about the distillery.


"I have my own theory about it," he said. "I think it was one of
those ... peculiar cases .... But it's hard to say...."
He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory.
My uncle saw me staring and said to me:
"Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear."
"Who?" said I.
"Father Flynn."
"Is he dead?"
"Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the house."
I knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as if the
news had not interested me. My uncle explained to old Cotter.
"The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught
him a great deal, mind you; and they say he had a great wish for
him."
"God have mercy on his soul," said my aunt piously.
Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little beady
black eyes were examining me but I would not satisfy him by looking
up from my plate. He returned to his pipe and finally spat rudely
into the grate.
"I wouldn't like children of mine," he said, "to have too much to
say to a man like that."
"How do you mean, Mr. Cotter?" asked my aunt.
"What I mean is," said old Cotter, "it's bad for children. My idea
is: let a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age

and not be... Am I right, Jack?"
"That's my principle, too," said my uncle. "Let him learn to box his
corner. That's what I'm always saying to that Rosicrucian there: take
exercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning of my life I had a


cold bath, winter and summer. And that's what stands to me now.
Education is all very fine and large.... Mr. Cotter might take a pick
of that leg mutton," he added to my aunt.
"No, no, not for me," said old Cotter.
My aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on the table.
"But why do you think it's not good for children, Mr. Cotter?" she
asked.
"It's bad for children," said old Cotter, "because their mind are so
impressionable. When children see things like that, you know, it has
an effect...."
I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give
utterance to my anger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!
It was late when I fell asleep. Though I was angry with old Cotter
for alluding to me as a child, I puzzled my head to extract meaning
from his unfinished sentences. In the dark of my room I imagined
that I saw again the heavy grey face of the paralytic. I drew the
blankets over my head and tried to think of Christmas. But the grey
face still followed me. It murmured, and I understood that it desired
to confess something. I felt my soul receding into some pleasant and
vicious region; and there again I found it waiting for me. It began to
confess to me in a murmuring voice and I wondered why it smiled
continually and why the lips were so moist with spittle. But then I
remembered that it had died of paralysis and I felt that I too was
smiling feebly as if to absolve the simoniac of his sin.

The next morning after breakfast I went down to look at the little
house in Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming shop, registered
under the vague name of Drapery . The drapery consisted mainly of
children's bootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary days a notice used
to hang in the window, saying: Umbrellas Re-covered . No notice
was visible now for the shutters were up. A crape bouquet was tied
to the doorknocker with ribbon. Two poor women and a telegram
boy were reading the card pinned on the crape. I also approached
and read:


July 1st, 1895 The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine's
Church, Meath Street), aged sixty-five years. R. I. P.
The reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I was
disturbed to find myself at check. Had he not been dead I would
have gone into the little dark room behind the shop to find him
sitting in his arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in his greatcoat. Perhaps my aunt would have given me a packet of High Toast
for him and this present would have roused him from his stupefied
doze. It was always I who emptied the packet into his black snuffbox for his hands trembled too much to allow him to do this without
spilling half the snuff about the floor. Even as he raised his large
trembling hand to his nose little clouds of smoke dribbled through
his fingers over the front of his coat. It may have been these
constant showers of snuff which gave his ancient priestly garments
their green faded look for the red handkerchief, blackened, as it
always was, with the snuff-stains of a week, with which he tried to
brush away the fallen grains, was quite inefficacious.
I wished to go in and look at him but I had not the courage to
knock. I walked away slowly along the sunny side of the street,
reading all the theatrical advertisements in the shop-windows as I
went. I found it strange that neither I nor the day seemed in a

mourning mood and I felt even annoyed at discovering in myself a
sensation of freedom as if I had been freed from something by his
death. I wondered at this for, as my uncle had said the night before,
he had taught me a great deal. He had studied in the Irish college in
Rome and he had taught me to pronounce Latin properly. He had
told me stories about the catacombs and about Napoleon Bonaparte,
and he had explained to me the meaning of the different ceremonies
of the Mass and of the different vestments worn by the priest.
Sometimes he had amused himself by putting difficult questions to
me, asking me what one should do in certain circumstances or
whether such and such sins were mortal or venial or only
imperfections. His questions showed me how complex and
mysterious were certain institutions of the Church which I had
always regarded as the simplest acts. The duties of the priest
towards the Eucharist and towards the secrecy of the confessional
seemed so grave to me that I wondered how anybody had ever found
in himself the courage to undertake them; and I was not surprised
when he told me that the fathers of the Church had written books as


thick as the Post Office Directory and as closely printed as the law
notices in the newspaper, elucidating all these intricate questions.
Often when I thought of this I could make no answer or only a very
foolish and halting one upon which he used to smile and nod his
head twice or thrice. Sometimes he used to put me through the
responses of the Mass which he had made me learn by heart; and, as
I pattered, he used to smile pensively and nod his head, now and
then pushing huge pinches of snuff up each nostril alternately. When
he smiled he used to uncover his big discoloured teeth and let his
tongue lie upon his lower lip--a habit which had made me feel

uneasy in the beginning of our acquaintance before I knew him well.
As I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter's words and
tried to remember what had happened afterwards in the dream. I
remembered that I had noticed long velvet curtains and a swinging
lamp of antique fashion. I felt that I had been very far away, in some
land where the customs were strange--in Persia, I thought.... But I
could not remember the end of the dream.
In the evening my aunt took me with her to visit the house of
mourning. It was after sunset; but the window-panes of the houses
that looked to the west reflected the tawny gold of a great bank of
clouds. Nannie received us in the hall; and, as it would have been
unseemly to have shouted at her, my aunt shook hands with her for
all. The old woman pointed upwards interrogatively and, on my
aunt's nodding, proceeded to toil up the narrow staircase before us,
her bowed head being scarcely above the level of the banister-rail. At
the first landing she stopped and beckoned us forward encouragingly
towards the open door of the dead-room. My aunt went in and the
old woman, seeing that I hesitated to enter, began to beckon to me
again repeatedly with her hand.
I went in on tiptoe. The room through the lace end of the blind
was suffused with dusky golden light amid which the candles looked
like pale thin flames. He had been coffined. Nannie gave the lead
and we three knelt down at the foot of the bed. I pretended to pray
but I could not gather my thoughts because the old woman's
mutterings distracted me. I noticed how clumsily her skirt was
hooked at the back and how the heels of her cloth boots were
trodden down all to one side. The fancy came to me that the old
priest was smiling as he lay there in his coffin.

But no. When we rose and went up to the head of the bed I saw
that he was not smiling. There he lay, solemn and copious, vested as
for the altar, his large hands loosely retaining a chalice. His face was
very truculent, grey and massive, with black cavernous nostrils and
circled by a scanty white fur. There was a heavy odour in the room-the flowers.
We crossed ourselves and came away. In the little room
downstairs we found Eliza seated in his arm-chair in state. I groped
my way towards my usual chair in the corner while Nannie went to
the sideboard and brought out a decanter of sherry and some wineglasses. She set these on the table and invited us to take a little glass
of wine. Then, at her sister's bidding, she filled out the sherry into
the glasses and passed them to us. She pressed me to take some
cream crackers also but I declined because I thought I would make
too much noise eating them. She seemed to be somewhat
disappointed at my refusal and went over quietly to the sofa where
she sat down behind her sister. No one spoke: we all gazed at the
empty fireplace.
My aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then said:
"Ah, well, he's gone to a better world."
Eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent. My aunt
fingered the stem of her wine-glass before sipping a little.
"Did he... peacefully?" she asked.
"Oh, quite peacefully, ma'am," said Eliza. "You couldn't tell when
the breath went out of him. He had a beautiful death, God be
praised."
"And everything...?"
"Father O'Rourke was in with him a Tuesday and anointed him
and prepared him and all."
"He knew then?"
"He was quite resigned."

"He looks quite resigned," said my aunt.
"That's what the woman we had in to wash him said. She said he
just looked as if he was asleep, he looked that peaceful and resigned.
No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse."
"Yes, indeed," said my aunt.
She sipped a little more from her glass and said:
"Well, Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be a great comfort for you
to know that you did all you could for him. You were both very kind
to him, I must say."
Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees.
"Ah, poor James!" she said. "God knows we done all we could, as
poor as we are--we wouldn't see him want anything while he was in
it."
Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow and seemed
about to fall asleep.
"There's poor Nannie," said Eliza, looking at her, "she's wore out.
All the work we had, she and me, getting in the woman to wash him
and then laying him out and then the coffin and then arranging
about the Mass in the chapel. Only for Father O'Rourke I don't know
what we'd done at all. It was him brought us all them flowers and
them two candlesticks out of the chapel and wrote out the notice for
the Freeman's General and took charge of all the papers for the
cemetery and poor James's insurance."
"Wasn't that good of him?" said my aunt
Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.
"Ah, there's no friends like the old friends," she said, "when all is
said and done, no friends that a body can trust."
"Indeed, that's true," said my aunt. "And I'm sure now that he's
gone to his eternal reward he won't forget you and all your kindness

to him."


"Ah, poor James!" said Eliza. "He was no great trouble to us. You
wouldn't hear him in the house any more than now. Still, I know he's
gone and all to that...."
"It's when it's all over that you'll miss him," said my aunt.
"I know that," said Eliza. "I won't be bringing him in his cup of
beef-tea any me, nor you, ma'am, sending him his snuff. Ah, poor
James!"
She stopped, as if she were communing with the past and then
said shrewdly:
"Mind you, I noticed there was something queer coming over him
latterly. Whenever I'd bring in his soup to him there I'd find him with
his breviary fallen to the floor, lying back in the chair and his mouth
open."
She laid a finger against her nose and frowned: then she
continued:
"But still and all he kept on saying that before the summer was
over he'd go out for a drive one fine day just to see the old house
again where we were all born down in Irishtown and take me and
Nannie with him. If we could only get one of them new-fangled
carriages that makes no noise that Father O'Rourke told him about,
them with the rheumatic wheels, for the day cheap--he said, at
Johnny Rush's over the way there and drive out the three of us
together of a Sunday evening. He had his mind set on that.... Poor
James!"
"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" said my aunt.
Eliza took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. Then
she put it back again in her pocket and gazed into the empty grate

for some time without speaking.
"He was too scrupulous always," she said. "The duties of the
priesthood was too much for him. And then his life was, you might
say, crossed."


"Yes," said my aunt. "He was a disappointed man. You could see
that."
A silence took possession of the little room and, under cover of it,
I approached the table and tasted my sherry and then returned
quietly to my chair in the comer. Eliza seemed to have fallen into a
deep revery. We waited respectfully for her to break the silence: and
after a long pause she said slowly:
"It was that chalice he broke.... That was the beginning of it. Of
course, they say it was all right, that it contained nothing, I mean.
But still.... They say it was the boy's fault. But poor James was so
nervous, God be merciful to him!"
"And was that it?" said my aunt. "I heard something...."
Eliza nodded.
"That affected his mind," she said. "After that he began to mope
by himself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself. So
one night he was wanted for to go on a call and they couldn't find
him anywhere. They looked high up and low down; and still they
couldn't see a sight of him anywhere. So then the clerk suggested to
try the chapel. So then they got the keys and opened the chapel and
the clerk and Father O'Rourke and another priest that was there
brought in a light for to look for him.... And what do you think but
there he was, sitting up by himself in the dark in his confession-box,
wide- awake and laughing-like softly to himself?"
She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened; but there was

no sound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying still
in his coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in death, an
idle chalice on his breast.
Eliza resumed:
"Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself.... So then, of course,
when they saw that, that made them think that there was something
gone wrong with him...."


AN ENCOUNTER
IT WAS Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a
little library made up of old numbers of The Union Jack , Pluck and
The Halfpenny Marvel . Every evening after school we met in his
back garden and arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young
brother Leo, the idler, held the loft of the stable while we tried to
carry it by storm; or we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But,
however well we fought, we never won siege or battle and all our
bouts ended with Joe Dillon's war dance of victory. His parents went
to eight- o'clock mass every morning in Gardiner Street and the
peaceful odour of Mrs. Dillon was prevalent in the hall of the house.
But he played too fiercely for us who were younger and more timid.
He looked like some kind of an Indian when he capered round the
garden, an old tea-cosy on his head, beating a tin with his fist and
yelling:
Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!"
Everyone was incredulous when it was reported that he had a
vocation for the priesthood. Nevertheless it was true.
A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under its
influence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. We
banded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some

almost in fear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant
Indians who were afraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, I
was one. The adventures related in the literature of the Wild West
were remote from my nature but, at least, they opened doors of
escape. I liked better some American detective stories which were
traversed from time to time by unkempt fierce and beautiful girls.
Though there was nothing wrong in these stories and though their
intention was sometimes literary they were circulated secretly at
school. One day when Father Butler was hearing the four pages of
Roman History clumsy Leo Dillon was discovered with a copy of The
Halfpenny Marvel .
"This page or this page? This page Now, Dillon, up! 'Hardly had
the day' ... Go on! What day? 'Hardly had the day dawned' ... Have
you studied it? What have you there in your pocket?"


Everyone's heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper and
everyone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over the
pages, frowning.
"What is this rubbish?" he said. "The Apache Chief! Is this what
you read instead of studying your Roman History? Let me not find
any more of this wretched stuff in this college. The man who wrote
it, I suppose, was some wretched fellow who writes these things for
a drink. I'm surprised at boys like you, educated, reading such stuff.
I could understand it if you were ... National School boys. Now,
Dillon, I advise you strongly, get at your work or..."
This rebuke during the sober hours of school paled much of the
glory of the Wild West for me and the confused puffy face of Leo
Dillon awakened one of my consciences. But when the restraining
influence of the school was at a distance I began to hunger again for

wild sensations, for the escape which those chronicles of disorder
alone seemed to offer me. The mimic warfare of the evening became
at last as wearisome to me as the routine of school in the morning
because I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real
adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at
home: they must be sought abroad.
The summer holidays were near at hand when I made up my mind
to break out of the weariness of schoollife for one day at least. With
Leo Dillon and a boy named Mahony I planned a day's miching. Each
of us saved up sixpence. We were to meet at ten in the morning on
the Canal Bridge. Mahony's big sister was to write an excuse for him
and Leo Dillon was to tell his brother to say he was sick. We
arranged to go along the Wharf Road until we came to the ships,
then to cross in the ferryboat and walk out to see the Pigeon House.
Leo Dillon was afraid we might meet Father Butler or someone out of
the college; but Mahony asked, very sensibly, what would Father
Butler be doing out at the Pigeon House. We were reassured: and I
brought the first stage of the plot to an end by collecting sixpence
from the other two, at the same time showing them my own
sixpence. When we were making the last arrangements on the eve we
were all vaguely excited. We shook hands, laughing, and Mahony
said:
"Till tomorrow, mates!"


That night I slept badly. In the morning I was firstcomer to the
bridge as I lived nearest. I hid my books in the long grass near the
ashpit at the end of the garden where nobody ever came and hurried
along the canal bank. It was a mild sunny morning in the first week
of June. I sat up on the coping of the bridge admiring my frail canvas

shoes which I had diligently pipeclayed overnight and watching the
docile horses pulling a tramload of business people up the hill. All
the branches of the tall trees which lined the mall were gay with
little light green leaves and the sunlight slanted through them on to
the water. The granite stone of the bridge was beginning to be warm
and I began to pat it with my hands in time to an air in my head. I
was very happy.
When I had been sitting there for five or ten minutes I saw
Mahony's grey suit approaching. He came up the hill, smiling, and
clambered up beside me on the bridge. While we were waiting he
brought out the catapult which bulged from his inner pocket and
explained some improvements which he had made in it. I asked him
why he had brought it and he told me he had brought it to have
some gas with the birds. Mahony used slang freely, and spoke of
Father Butler as Old Bunser. We waited on for a quarter of an hour
more but still there was no sign of Leo Dillon. Mahony, at last,
jumped down and said:
"Come along. I knew Fatty'd funk it."
"And his sixpence...?" I said.
"That's forfeit," said Mahony. "And so much the better for us--a
bob and a tanner instead of a bob."
We walked along the North Strand Road till we came to the Vitriol
Works and then turned to the right along the Wharf Road. Mahony
began to play the Indian as soon as we were out of public sight. He
chased a crowd of ragged girls, brandishing his unloaded catapult
and, when two ragged boys began, out of chivalry, to fling stones at
us, he proposed that we should charge them. I objected that the boys
were too small and so we walked on, the ragged troop screaming
after us: "Swaddlers! Swaddlers!" thinking that we were Protestants
because Mahony, who was dark-complexioned, wore the silver badge

of a cricket club in his cap. When we came to the Smoothing Iron we


arranged a siege; but it was a failure because you must have at least
three. We revenged ourselves on Leo Dillon by saying what a funk he
was and guessing how many he would get at three o'clock from Mr.
Ryan.
We came then near the river. We spent a long time walking about
the noisy streets flanked by high stone walls, watching the working
of cranes and engines and often being shouted at for our immobility
by the drivers of groaning carts. It was noon when we reached the
quays and as all the labourers seemed to be eating their lunches, we
bought two big currant buns and sat down to eat them on some
metal piping beside the river. We pleased ourselves with the
spectacle of Dublin's commerce--the barges signalled from far away
by their curls of woolly smoke, the brown fishing fleet beyond
Ringsend, the big white sailingvessel which was being discharged on
the opposite quay. Mahony said it would be right skit to run away to
sea on one of those big ships and even I, looking at the high masts,
saw, or imagined, the geography which had been scantily dosed to
me at school gradually taking substance under my eyes. School and
home seemed to recede from us and their influences upon us seemed
to wane.
We crossed the Liffey in the ferryboat, paying our toll to be
transported in the company of two labourers and a little Jew with a
bag. We were serious to the point of solemnity, but once during the
short voyage our eyes met and we laughed. When we landed we
watched the discharging of the graceful threemaster which we had
observed from the other quay. Some bystander said that she was a
Norwegian vessel. I went to the stern and tried to decipher the

legend upon it but, failing to do so, I came back and examined the
foreign sailors to see had any of them green eyes for I had some
confused notion.... The sailors' eyes were blue and grey and even
black. The only sailor whose eyes could have been called green was a
tall man who amused the crowd on the quay by calling out cheerfully
every time the planks fell:
"All right! All right!"
When we were tired of this sight we wandered slowly into
Ringsend. The day had grown sultry, and in the windows of the
grocers' shops musty biscuits lay bleaching. We bought some biscuits


and chocolate which we ate sedulously as we wandered through the
squalid streets where the families of the fishermen live. We could
find no dairy and so we went into a huckster's shop and bought a
bottle of raspberry lemonade each. Refreshed by this, Mahony
chased a cat down a lane, but the cat escaped into a wide field. We
both felt rather tired and when we reached the field we made at once
for a sloping bank over the ridge of which we could see the Dodder.
It was too late and we were too tired to carry out our project of
visiting the Pigeon House. We had to be home before four o'clock lest
our adventure should be discovered. Mahony looked regretfully at
his catapult and I had to suggest going home by train before he
regained any cheerfulness. The sun went in behind some clouds and
left us to our jaded thoughts and the crumbs of our provisions.
There was nobody but ourselves in the field. When we had lain on
the bank for some time without speaking I saw a man approaching
from the far end of the field. I watched him lazily as I chewed one of
those green stems on which girls tell fortunes. He came along by the
bank slowly. He walked with one hand upon his hip and in the other

hand he held a stick with which he tapped the turf lightly. He was
shabbily dressed in a suit of greenish-black and wore what we used
to call a jerry hat with a high crown. He seemed to be fairly old for
his moustache was ashen-grey. When he passed at our feet he
glanced up at us quickly and then continued his way. We followed
him with our eyes and saw that when he had gone on for perhaps
fifty paces he turned about and began to retrace his steps. He
walked towards us very slowly, always tapping the ground with his
stick, so slowly that I thought he was looking for something in the
grass.
He stopped when he came level with us and bade us goodday. We
answered him and he sat down beside us on the slope slowly and
with great care. He began to talk of the weather, saying that it would
be a very hot summer and adding that the seasons had changed
gready since he was a boy--a long time ago. He said that the happiest
time of one's life was undoubtedly one's schoolboy days and that he
would give anything to be young again. While he expressed these
sentiments which bored us a little we kept silent. Then he began to
talk of school and of books. He asked us whether we had read the
poetry of Thomas Moore or the works of Sir Walter Scott and Lord


Lytton. I pretended that I had read every book he mentioned so that
in the end he said:
"Ah, I can see you are a bookworm like myself. Now," he added,
pointing to Mahony who was regarding us with open eyes, "he is
different; he goes in for games."
He said he had all Sir Walter Scott's works and all Lord Lytton's
works at home and never tired of reading them. "Of course," he said,
"there were some of Lord Lytton's works which boys couldn't read."

Mahony asked why couldn't boys read them--a question which
agitated and pained me because I was afraid the man would think I
was as stupid as Mahony. The man, however, only smiled. I saw that
he had great gaps in his mouth between his yellow teeth. Then he
asked us which of us had the most sweethearts. Mahony mentioned
lightly that he had three totties. The man asked me how many I had.
I answered that I had none. He did not believe me and said he was
sure I must have one. I was silent.
"Tell us," said Mahony pertly to the man, "how many have you
yourself?"
The man smiled as before and said that when he was our age he
had lots of sweethearts.
"Every boy," he said, "has a little sweetheart."
His attitude on this point struck me as strangely liberal in a man
of his age. In my heart I thought that what he said about boys and
sweethearts was reasonable. But I disliked the words in his mouth
and I wondered why he shivered once or twice as if he feared
something or felt a sudden chill. As he proceeded I noticed that his
accent was good. He began to speak to us about girls, saying what
nice soft hair they had and how soft their hands were and how all
girls were not so good as they seemed to be if one only knew. There
was nothing he liked, he said, so much as looking at a nice young
girl, at her nice white hands and her beautiful soft hair. He gave me
the impression that he was repeating something which he had
learned by heart or that, magnetised by some words of his own
speech, his mind was slowly circling round and round in the same
orbit. At times he spoke as if he were simply alluding to some fact
that everybody knew, and at times he lowered his voice and spoke

mysteriously as if he were telling us something secret which he did
not wish others to overhear. He repeated his phrases over and over
again, varying them and surrounding them with his monotonous
voice. I continued to gaze towards the foot of the slope, listening to
him.
After a long while his monologue paused. He stood up slowly,
saying that he had to leave us for a minute or so, a few minutes,
and, without changing the direction of my gaze, I saw him walking
slowly away from us towards the near end of the field. We remained
silent when he had gone. After a silence of a few minutes I heard
Mahony exclaim:
"I say! Look what he's doing!"
As I neither answered nor raised my eyes Mahony exclaimed
again:
"I say... He's a queer old josser!"
"In case he asks us for our names," I said "let you be Murphy and
I'll be Smith."
We said nothing further to each other. I was still considering
whether I would go away or not when the man came back and sat
down beside us again. Hardly had he sat down when Mahony,
catching sight of the cat which had escaped him, sprang up and
pursued her across the field. The man and I watched the chase. The
cat escaped once more and Mahony began to throw stones at the
wall she had escaladed. Desisting from this, he began to wander
about the far end of the field, aimlessly.
After an interval the man spoke to me. He said that my friend was
a very rough boy and asked did he get whipped often at school. I
was going to reply indignantly that we were not National School
boys to be whipped, as he called it; but I remained silent. He began
to speak on the subject of chastising boys. His mind, as if

magnetised again by his speech, seemed to circle slowly round and
round its new centre. He said that when boys were that kind they
ought to be whipped and well whipped. When a boy was rough and
unruly there was nothing would do him any good but a good sound
whipping. A slap on the hand or a box on the ear was no good: what


he wanted was to get a nice warm whipping. I was surprised at this
sentiment and involuntarily glanced up at his face. As I did so I met
the gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peering at me from under a
twitching forehead. I turned my eyes away again.
The man continued his monologue. He seemed to have forgotten
his recent liberalism. He said that if ever he found a boy talking to
girls or having a girl for a sweetheart he would whip him and whip
him; and that would teach him not to be talking to girls. And if a
boy had a girl for a sweetheart and told lies about it then he would
give him such a whipping as no boy ever got in this world. He said
that there was nothing in this world he would like so well as that.
He described to me how he would whip such a boy as if he were
unfolding some elaborate mystery. He would love that, he said,
better than anything in this world; and his voice, as he led me
monotonously through the mystery, grew almost affectionate and
seemed to plead with me that I should understand him.
I waited till his monologue paused again. Then I stood up
abruptly. Lest I should betray my agitation I delayed a few moments
pretending to fix my shoe properly and then, saying that I was
obliged to go, I bade him good-day. I went up the slope calmly but
my heart was beating quickly with fear that he would seize me by
the ankles. When I reached the top of the slope I turned round and,
without looking at him, called loudly across the field:

"Murphy!"
My voice had an accent of forced bravery in it and I was ashamed
of my paltry stratagem. I had to call the name again before Mahony
saw me and hallooed in answer. How my heart beat as he came
running across the field to me! He ran as if to bring me aid. And I
was penitent; for in my heart I had always despised him a little.


ARABY
NORTH RICHMOND STREET being blind, was a quiet street
except at the hour when the Christian Brothers' School set the boys
free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end,
detached from its neighbours in a square ground The other houses of
the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one
another with brown imperturbable faces.
The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back
drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in
all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered
with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered
books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by
Walter Scott, The Devout Communnicant and The Memoirs of
Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild
garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few
straggling bushes under one of which I found the late tenant's rusty
bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he
had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house
to his sister.
When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well
eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown
sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing

violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble
lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed.
Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play
brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where
we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back
doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the
ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed
and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness.
When we returned to the street light from the kitchen windows had
filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid in
the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's
sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea we
watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We


waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she
remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan's steps
resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light
from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he
obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as
she moved her body and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to
side.
Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her
door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so
that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my
heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I
kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the
point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed
her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to
her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a

summons to all my foolish blood.
Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to
romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had
to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring
streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the
curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on
guard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of streetsingers, who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad
about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a
single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice
safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at
moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not
understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why)
and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my
bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would
ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of
my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words
and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the
priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound
in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain
impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing
in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed


below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses
seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to
slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they
trembled, murmuring: "O love! O love!" many times.
At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me
I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me

was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would
be a splendid bazaar, she said she would love to go.
"And why can't you?" I asked.
While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her
wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat
that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were
fighting for their caps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of
the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp
opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair
that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell
over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat,
just visible as she stood at ease.
"It's well for you," she said.
"If I go," I said, "I will bring you something."
What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping
thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious
intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my
bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me
and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were
called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and
cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the
bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised and hoped it was
not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I
watched my master's face pass from amiability to sternness; he
hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering
thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work
of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed
to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to
the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking
for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly:
"Yes, boy, I know."
As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie
at the window. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly
towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart
misgave me.
When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home.
Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and. when
its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the
staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high cold
empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room
singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below
in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and,
leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark
house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing
nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched
discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the
railings and at the border below the dress.
When I came downstairs again I found Mrs. Mercer sitting at the
fire. She was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who
collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the
gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and
still my uncle did not come. Mrs. Mercer stood up to go: she was
sorry she couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight o'clock and
she did not like to be out late as the night air was bad for her. When
she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my
fists. My aunt said:
"I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our

Lord."
At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the halldoor. I heard
him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had
received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs.
When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the
money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.


"The people are in bed and after their first sleep now," he said.
I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:
"Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him
late enough as it is."
My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he
believed in the old saying: "All work and no play makes Jack a dull
boy." He asked me where I was going and, when I had told him a
second time he asked me did I know The Arab's Farewell to his
Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening
lines of the piece to my aunt.
I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham
Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with
buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my
journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train.
After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly.
It crept onward among ruinous house and over the twinkling river.
At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage
doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special
train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few
minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I
passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that
it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which

displayed the magical name.
I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the
bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile,
handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big
hall girdled at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were
closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognised
a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked
into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered
about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which
the words Cafe Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two men
were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.
Remembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of
the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea- sets. At
the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two


young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened
vaguely to their conversation.
"O, I never said such a thing!"
"O, but you did!"
"O, but I didn't!"
"Didn't she say that?"
"Yes. I heard her."
"0, there's a ... fib!"
Observing me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish
to buy anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she
seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked
humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side
of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured:
"No, thank you."

The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went
back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject.
Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.
I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to
make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned
away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed
the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a
voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The
upper part of the hall was now completely dark.
Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and
derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.


EVELINE
SHE sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue.
Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils
was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was tired.
Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his
way home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete
pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the
new red houses. One time there used to be a field there in which
they used to play every evening with other people's children. Then a
man from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it--not like
their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining roofs.
The children of the avenue used to play together in that field --the
Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her
brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he was too
grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field with
his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and
call out when he saw her father coming. Still they seemed to have

been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then; and
besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and her
brothers and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead. Tizzie
Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to England.
Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the others,
to leave her home.
Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar
objects which she had dusted once a week for so many years,
wondering where on earth all the dust came from. Perhaps she
would never see again those familiar objects from which she had
never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years she
had never found out the name of the priest whose yellowing
photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside
the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary
Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever he
showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a
casual word: